The Campus Trilogy (7 page)

Later in the day, I received an email from Pilkington asking that we resume the discussion without Penelope’s cat. He
suggested
we meet on Friday at three o’clock. I phoned Penelope and left a message asking if she could come. She emailed me back, mentioning that Rufus had vomited up a hair ball and was now much better.

On Friday I met Penelope in my room before the meeting. She brought photographs of Rufus, since I had asked after his health. We walked across the campus to Pilkington’s office. When Pilkington opened his door, he looked relieved when he saw there was no cat. I asked if he had any pets, and to our astonishment he replied that in his view the only reason to keep an animal was to eat it. Penelope thought this was a joke in bad taste. Pilkington, however, was serious. Citing Thomas Aquinas’ opinion that animals lack souls, he maintained that animals were created only for the benefit of man. Penelope disagreed – loudly and vehemently. This was yet another inauspicious start to our meeting.

“Now that we are not being interrupted,” Pilkington began, “I think we can address the issues raised by Jenny’s letter.”

“Look,” I said. “It wasn’t my intention to upset Jenny. I think she should have ordered books for my students. That’s her job. But I don’t want to make this a matter of principle. I’m quite willing to write an apology for upsetting her, although I think I will have to say that the books should have been ordered.”

Pilkington looked troubled. “You must apologise,” he said. “You were very tactless. I’ve talked this over with Wanda and the VC, and in our view we think you were misusing your position as a professor. But an apology is not enough. I’m afraid I am going to have to issue you with an oral warning.” He opened the Staff Handbook which was lying on his desk. “This has been an informal meeting so far,” he continued, “but given the gravity of the situation, I’m proceeding from Provision
14 (Grievance) to Provision 24 (Discipline). This states that an oral warning can be given in situations where there has been serious misconduct. As Head of Department I am empowered to issue such a warning as long as I’ve consulted the Dean and Vice-Chancellor. They both agree that this would be the correct action given the circumstances. Of course you have the right of appeal. But I would strongly urge you not to invoke it.”

Penelope was outraged. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “As an officer of the union, I must protest in the strongest terms. There is simply no reason for issuing an oral warning. The regional officer of the UCU will be very annoyed when he hears. Jenny Sloth should have ordered books for Harry’s students. She didn’t answer his request. He emailed her. This was quite proper. There was no response. So he emailed her again. And then he wrote her a letter. Throughout he has acted professionally. You would have been the first to criticize if he had ignored student complaints …”

“Well,” Pilkington interrupted, “that’s not the way the Dean and the Vice-Chancellor see it.” He sat at his desk and frowned at us. “You can do as you wish,” he said. “Don’t think I take any pleasure in this matter. You should be relieved this isn’t going to be a written warning. In any event, an oral warning lasts for a year and will be cancelled assuming there is no repetition of similar behaviour. I will confirm in writing that I have given you an oral warning. It takes effect immediately.”

Penelope and I stood up and walked to the door. Enraged, Penelope complained all the way to my room. “The man’s an idiot,” she said. “He’s nothing more than a little creep. And what about his attitude toward animals … he’s a complete barbarian,” she announced loudly. “Rufus should have bitten him when he had a chance.”

Pilkington’s letter arrived the following week. He informed me that I had been given an oral warning which was effective from the date of the meeting and would be in force for a full year. Any similar offence, Pilkington stated, would be regarded with the utmost seriousness. He went on to emphasize that both the Dean and the VC had been consulted and had authorized this action. He concluded by saying that I had the right to appeal
against his decision – if I did wish to do so, I should write directly to the Registrar.

I phoned Magnus and asked him to meet me for tea in the Senior Common Room. When I arrived, there was a table in the corner. I put my coat on a chair and ordered lemon tea for us both plus two toasted teacakes each. I felt guilty about the tea cakes, but I thought they might cheer us up. The SCR was empty except for two Law lecturers who were poring over papers spread out on their table. When I read the letter to Magnus, he groaned. “They fixed it up,” he said. “They’ve decided you’ve got to go. No doubt about it. Are you sure you don’t want to take a retirement deal?”

“But this is entirely unfair,” I replied. “I spoke to Penelope earlier today. She said I should appeal against Pilkington. She tells me that the Appeal Committee is chaired by the
Vice-Chancellor
and two other members drawn from Senate.
Whatever
I finally decide,” I declared, “I’m going to clear my name.”

Magnus slumped in his chair and ate his tea cakes. They were sticky with butter which dribbled on to his Harris tweed jacket. “Delicious,” he mumbled. Wiping butter from his chin, he spread open
The Times
. “Look here,” he said gazing at the obituaries, “the Regius Professor of Theology at St Patricks has just died. He was only fifty-nine. He was at my college at Oxford. Biggest crawler in my year. How he became Regius Professor, God only knows!”

“Didn’t he write a book about divine omniscience?” I asked.

“It was his PhD thesis.”

“So he must have known that God would know!” I said brightly.

“The only thing that chap knew about was how to play his cards right. Regius Professor! He only wrote one book, for Christ’s sake.”

“Magnus, you’ve got to concentrate on the matter in hand. What am I supposed to do?”

Magnus flicked through
The Times
. “There’s only one thing to do,” he said. “Wait and see.”

Victoria and I had planned to go to London on Sunday; she had a commission to write a review of the Chelsea Antiques Fair for
Country Life
magazine. Over the last few years she had written a regular column about antiques for the
St Sebastian Gazette
, and had recently published several articles for
The Times
. This was her first publication in a glossy magazine. We arranged to stay at the Acropolis on Saturday night and have lunch at the fair. Our room at the club was spartan, not unlike my schoolboy room at Shrewsbury.

We had dinner in the coffee room and coffee afterwards in the drawing room. We sat on a green leather sofa near the door. Victoria was reading the magazines and I was enjoying myself looking up my own entry in the latest
Who’s Who
. Suddenly I heard a familiar voice. It was Barraclough who was with a group of elderly men. As he passed, he greeted us briefly.

“Looks rather guilty, don’t you think?” Victoria commented.

“More than a bit,” I said.

“Who are those men?”

“I’ve never seen them before. Perhaps they’re fellow
Vice-Chancellor
s.”

Barraclough and the others had assembled by the drinks table. They were joined by several churchmen, including the
Provost
of St Sebastian’s Cathedral. Barraclough and the Provost were speaking animatedly, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. “Harry,” Victoria said, holding up her magazine, “look at this house.” It was a Georgian cottage in the Cotswolds. “Don’t you think it’s lovely?”

“Victoria,” I said, “I don’t want to move. Please.”

“Just thought you might be interested, that’s all.”

Gloomily I looked over at Barraclough and the others who had seated themselves near the library. “I wonder what the Provost and the VC are talking about,” I ruminated. “Probably me.”

The next day Victoria and I took a taxi to Chelsea. We had been sent invitations to the fair from
Country Life
and we had lunch there with Vanessa Mandril-Fortescue, one of Victoria’s old friends from Cheltenham Ladies’ College. She lived just off the King’s Road in a small town house. Her husband, James, had just retired from the City and had been given an enormous golden handshake. She was at the fair looking for a pair of Queen Anne chairs for their new cottage
in Gloucestershire. “Come round to the house for tea,” she said as we finished lunch.

“We’d love to,” Victoria said. “I want to hear about the cottage. Perhaps you can persuade Harry to move near you. There’s a delicious little place for sale in Upper Honeycomb.”

“That’s very close,” Vanessa said. “It would be absolutely lovely. Are you thinking about retiring, Harry?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Victoria simply saw this cottage in
Country Life
…”

“You know,” Vanessa interrupted, “I’m always running into people I know in the Cotswolds. Nobody seems to live in London nowadays. It’s full of foreigners and tourists.”

After lunch I wandered from one stand to another. Victoria was busy taking notes and talking to exhibitors. Vanessa had disappeared in search of her chairs. At one stand I saw a small Georgian chocolate pot that I thought would look splendid in my office. I asked the price; it turned out to be an
Edwardian
reproduction of a Georgian design and was two hundred pounds. The previous week I had received an advance for a new book on Christian attitudes to Third World debt. I didn’t think Victoria would mind, so I bought it.

She had just finished taking photographs of a Welsh dresser with her digital camera. “This is a present for you,” I said.

“You mean for you,” she smiled.

“Well, actually it’s for both of us.”

She looked in the bag. “A chocolate pot? That is pretty!”

“Don’t you think it will look good in my office?”

“Well, scarcely a present for me, but it’s certainly a very nice shape. How much was it?”

We had a rule that whenever we went out to dinner or bought each other presents, we gave an equivalent sum of money to Christian Aid. I was a little defensive. “I paid for it with the advance for my new book.”

Victoria laughed, “The book about Third World debt – very appropriate. Now, Harry, look at this delightful dresser. Don’t you think it would look perfect in that cottage?”

As I wandered around the exhibition, I caught sight of a vaguely familiar figure. Wearing a sombre black suit and a hat, Rabbi Wachman was examining a small silver spice-box with
Hebrew letters. I went up, tapped him on the shoulder and asked him if he was about to spend Mr Gold’s money. He recognized me and laughed. “Oh dear,” he said. “I’m afraid that wretched Lisa gave you a lot of trouble. In fact the whole lot of them are difficult. The father promised a vast donation to the synagogue. We got the first instalment, but endless excuses are being made for the non-arrival of the rest.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t speak ill of my own people, but they’re not an easy family.”

“Good of you to tell me about the girl,” I said. “It made me feel a lot better. I was afraid I had given her the wrong signals, but if she is in the habit of doing this then no man is safe.” The rabbi smiled and we parted amicably.

Later, after tea in Vanessa’s house, we went to the evening service at Westminster Abbey. We took our bags with us so that we could catch the train back to St Sebastian’s. On the way home, Victoria talked incessantly about Vanessa’s new country cottage. “Oh Harry,” she said, “you really should think about leaving that horrible university. This business with the Registrar’s wife is awful. You’ll absolutely hate going through an appeal.”

“I know,” I said gloomily, “but I can’t let Jenny Sloth get away with it.”

“What difference does it make? We’ve got quite enough money. You don’t have to stay on until you are sixty-five. Why not make the break now? We could get a place in
Gloucestershire
, or somewhere nice. You could go to your club more often. And we could go travelling. Why put up with the gruesome Pilkingtons and that awful Wanda Catnip?”

“I’d miss Magnus,” I said.

“You can see him anyway. And just think of all the new friends we’d make.”

I stared out of the window as the train passed through the outskirts of St Sebastian’s.

The appeal was set for the week before Christmas. It was to be heard by the Vice-Chancellor and two members of the Senate. This committee was sent all relevant papers including the correspondence between Jenny Sloth and me, a report from Pilkington and Pilkington’s letter about the oral warning. The procedure would be non-adversarial: first the committee would meet with Jenny and her representative, and then with me and Penelope. Then they would meet with Pilkington. The Registrar was responsible for sending out all relevant documents and for overseeing the appeal. During the last few weeks, I had looked up grievance procedures at other universities on the internet. I also arranged to have a meeting with Morris O’Murphy at his office in London.

Several days before the appeal, I caught the train in the morning, had lunch at my club, and took the underground to Paddington where the offices of the union were located.
It was a grey, cold day when I set off; by the afternoon, it had begun to rain. Morris’s office was located in a modern building overlooking the station. The elevator was festooned with posters. The lift stopped at the third floor. A black woman wearing African dress greeted me at reception and directed me down a long corridor. Morris’s room was at the end. The door was open; Morris was sitting at his desk eating a chocolate bar and drinking a mug of coffee while talking on the phone. He gestured for me to sit down. I took papers from my briefcase as he discussed one of his cases.

“So, the point is,” he stated, “you’ve got to hand over your computer for the authorities to check it. They’re alleging that you downloaded pornography after giving Hotlips UK your credit card number. They’re going to take the computer apart. I’m in touch with the Vice-Chancellor, and I’ll let you know when he gets back to me. In the meantime, try not to worry.”

Morris looked tired as he hung up the phone. “Now, he’s in real trouble,” he sighed. “Can’t understand why a distinguished academic would want to watch that stuff. So, how are you feeling, Harry?” Morris was wearing a woolly sweater which was too tight for him, a light green tie the colour of the walls of his room and there were ink stains on his shirt. Compared with him I felt positively chic. His desk was strewn with paper including a file marked ‘Harry Gilbert vs. St Sebastian’s University’.

“I’m fine,” I said. ‘But this case is troubling. Do you know the Registrar is supposed to be in charge? How can that be allowed if his wife is involved?”

“Well, he is the Registrar: it’s his job. In theory he’s supposed to be objective. Anyway, the appeal is actually against your Head of Department, not Mrs Sloth.”

“But his wife is the one who brought the complaint.”

“I know, I know. There’s nothing we can do about it. The Vice-Chancellor is determined to follow university regulations to the letter.” Morris opened the file, and took out the Staff Handbook. “I’ve looked at this carefully,” he said. “Mrs Sloth didn’t say you bullied or harassed her. Otherwise, the case would be more serious and could result in a written warning. Her claim is that you were insensitive, that you lacked tact. Basically, she is arguing that you put undue stress on her, and
the Head of Department thinks that this was an abuse of your position.”

“But what was I supposed to do? She wouldn’t order books for the students. And they had begun to complain.”

Morris got up, refilled his electric kettle, and asked if I’d like to have a cup of coffee. He took a jar of instant coffee from a shelf, unscrewed it, and poured some into two mugs. “Milk?” he asked. He poured in powdered milk, opened up a biscuit tin stamped with the union logo on it, and offered me a chocolate digestive. With admirable self-control, I refused. “Sugar?” he asked. When I shook my head, he took out four sugar lumps and dropped them into a mug for himself.

“That’s quite a lot of sugar,” I observed. “It’ll rot your teeth, Morris.”

“Already has,” he grinned, as he helped himself to three biscuits out of the tin. “Now where were we?”

“Student complaints.”

“Oh yes. Well, Mrs Sloth is arguing that you could have phoned her or gone to see her, rather than send her what she regards as hectoring emails.”

“But everyone sends emails,” I said.

“Yes, of course, they do. But she thinks you were
unnecessarily
overbearing. And Dr Pilkington agrees.”

That evening I went back to the Acropolis for a talk dinner: Baroness Wingbat was speaking about artificial insemination. The dining room was packed. I was seated next to a visiting African bishop who was in London for a conference at
Cannonbury
Palace. He had been in committees all day discussing the issue of women bishops. He told me the Archbishop looked drained; the threat of division in the Anglican world was an overriding issue for everyone. I was gratified to hear that my book about Christian ethics was being used in African
seminaries
. During the discussion after dinner, I saw Barraclough at the far end of the room sitting next to a golden-haired youth. I had never seen him before – who was he? Perhaps Barraclough had a secret life … it was an enticing thought, but sadly improbable.

Afterwards, in the drawing room, I looked at the candidates’ book. I was dismayed to see that Barraclough and the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral had proposed the Registrar for
membership. I looked to see if anyone was watching, and then wrote in very small letters near Sloth’s name: ‘Unsuitable. Too Lazy and Horrid.’ Perhaps this would discourage others from supporting him.

During the afternoon, I had visited a bookshop off Piccadilly Circus and bought
The Art of War
. This ancient manual was written over two thousand years ago by Sun-Tzu, a Chinese general. On the back of the book was a statement which intrigued me: ‘Ultimate excellence lies not in winning every battle but in defeating the enemy without ever fighting.’ Could the Vice-Chancellor, Pilkington and Catnip be defeated without a battle? Sitting on the train reading this slim volume, I hoped no one would observe me and I hid the book behind my
Times
.

The next day there was a letter in my pigeonhole from Pilkington: the envelope was handwritten. Was this another official summons? Instead, it was an invitation to Pilkington’s annual Christmas party. It had a drawing of Father Christmas, a reindeer and glitter. I wondered what Victoria would make of it.

When I arrived home that evening, I put it on the hall table – Victoria had gone to a meeting of the local Women’s Institute in the village hall. She was a loyal member; she always said it was the way to get to know normal women and to learn useful things. With considerable effort I cooked spaghetti with tomato sauce, made a small salad, poured myself a glass of Muscadet, and went upstairs to watch television. As I sat on the bed, trying not to spill my wine, the two cats joined me. They peered into my spaghetti bowl. I was anxious to see a repeat of ‘Homicide Life on the Street’. Eventually Victoria arrived home, and I heard her giggling up the stairs.

“Father Christmas and his sleigh at the Pilkingtons’,” she announced. “This is their worst card yet. Why don’t they just send out At Home cards? I suppose the only charitable thing is to call it retro-kitsch. Really, Harry, your colleagues! They may be fearfully brainy, but their aesthetic education has been sadly neglected.”

“Do you think we ought to go?” I asked. “Given this appeal, it will be embarrassing.”

“Of course we must. You can’t show you care about their silly plot. Anyway I always enjoy seeing their house – it’s truly hideous. This time, you must go to the downstairs loo… it is the most extraordinary shocking pink colour! And take a good look at the hall carpet.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Harry, you must be blind. Its shag pile with beige swirls. Have you not honestly noticed?”

“I do remember their sofa and matching sludge armchairs and the lampshades with the fringes. But maybe it’s because they don’t have much money …”

“Nonsense! Frilly lampshades are not cheap. And anyway, it’s always so clinically clean. Maureen Pilkington must spend a fortune on hoover bags. We must go. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Will Little Miss Bossyboots be there too?”

“She’s normally invited. Last year even Barraclough made a brief appearance. Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely! Just write back and tell them we’ll be delighted to come. Anyway, the appeal will be over before the party.”

“Victoria,” I said. “Is your father going to have us all for Christmas this year?”

“Of course. And you’re supposed to give the sermon again in the village church. Have you forgotten?”

I looked in my diary. It was true. I had been invited nearly a year ago by the local vicar, Henry Rowlands. He had the living in the village church near the castle. My father-in-law had rowed in the same boat as Henry’s father at Trinity. Last year I had helped at the service, and he had asked me to preach. I pondered what I should say. Perhaps it wouldn’t be appropriate to speak about forgiveness and reconciliation – there was no sign of peace on earth and mercy mild in my life this year.

As Chairman of the Appeal Committee, Barraclough had asked the Professor of Chemistry, Ralph Randolph, and the Reader in Twentieth-Century History, Patricia Parham, to hear the appeal with him. Professor Randolph had been a lecturer at Sussex before coming to St Sebastian’s; small and bespectacled, he had a strong Lancashire accent. Dr Parham was a revisionist historian who had written a controversial book on Holocaust
denial and was frequently interviewed by the BBC. A strong supporter of gay rights, it was rumoured that she was living with a female car mechanic.

I was told to submit a brief account of my dealings with Jenny Sloth to the Committee. First, they would see Mrs Sloth, and then me. Afterwards they would write a report which would be submitted to Council in which they would make a recommendation. If the appeal were upheld, the oral warning would be cancelled; otherwise, it would remain in force for the rest of the year. In a letter describing the procedure, the
Vice-Chancellor
explained that the appeal hearing was scheduled for the Monday of the last week of term at two o’clock. Although I would be allowed to have a representative at the meeting, I must inform the Vice-Chancellor at least a week in advance who would be performing this role.

I sent the letter to Penelope and a copy to Morris O’Murphy. Penelope emailed me and asked me to come to her room to discuss how we should proceed. On the day, I arrived several minutes early. Penelope was on the phone and asked me to sit down. Several piles of essays were scattered on her desk alongside an overflowing ashtray, a mug of coffee and a wilting orchid. On the floor were stacks of books. Penelope’s computer and printer were placed on a table in the corner of the room alongside piles of floppy disks. The walls were covered with photographs of Rufus the cat as well as several gay rights posters.

“The bugger …” she splurted. “If he thinks he can get away with that, he’s got another think coming …” Eventually she hung up. “A complete shit!” she declared.

“Another union case?” I queried.

“No, it’s my brother-in-law. He just walked out on my sister.”

“Oh,” I said.

“The thing is,” she continued, “he’s got a new girlfriend, nearly twenty-five years younger than him. And he wants to go to live in Greece.”

“What does he plan to do for a living?” I asked.

“I can’t imagine. He’s an accountant and certainly can’t speak the language. Imogen is distraught. She has two little girls
and a large mortgage. If that bastard goes abroad, he can escape the Child Support Agency.” Turning in her chair to face me, she added: “At least you have the union to support you. My sister has no one, except me.”

I felt guilty. My problems seemed trivial compared with those of Penelope’s sister. Penelope began to search through the files on her desk. Eventually she found mine under a large pile of documents.

“Right,” she said. “How are you feeling, Harry?”

“OK, but what do you think of the Committee?”

“Could be worse. Randolph is a creep, but Patricia is all right. She’s been a real supporter of the gay campaign. She’s bound to have sympathy for whoever is victimized.” Penelope hesitated, “The problem is I know she wants a Chair ….”

“Was my letter to the VC satisfactory?” I asked.

“Very good explanation, I thought.”

“But will it get anywhere?”

Penelope paused. “Well, I can’t promise. You see, Harry, it’s not a question of fairness. There’s no natural justice at St Sebastian’s. That’s the problem. Instead there’s a little cabal which includes the VC and his managers who make all the decisions. In theory the Senate and the Council are supposed to take charge. But it’s really Barraclough, Wanda and the department heads who are in control. That’s why the union is so important. We’re your only protection.”

“Against tyranny?” I was amused.

“And tyrants …” Penelope was serious.

“How has it come to this?”

Penelope shrugged. “Who knows? The union was tricked into accepting pay deals on unacceptable terms. I can’t imagine how the new pay structure is going to work out. The VC is going to cut corners wherever he can to save money. All he wants is to get rid of people.”

“He can’t get rid of everyone,” I countered.

“No, of course not. But he’ll aim for those with the least security or those who are the most expensive.”

In the afternoon, I had a telephone conversation with Morris O’Murphy. He was on the train from London to Manchester. He was handling a complicated case about sexual harassment
involving a senior administrator and an undergraduate. We had a poor connection, but I did manage to explain about my meeting with Penelope and told him about the members of the Appeal Committee. He told me to keep in touch. Later in the day I went to see Magnus in his room. Unlike me, he was not naturally tidy. His bookcases were overflowing, and there were stacks of papers scattered on the floor. On the walls were maps of ancient Israel. In the corner was a large clay statue of a fertility god with an enormous phallus. Magnus used this as a peg for his coat.